


a dream is a wish

by floweryfran



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Disney World & Disneyland, Iron dad and Spider son, Irondad, Jewish Peter Parker, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker has ADHD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sleepy Peter Parker, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Vacation, and yet im stupid so like, dont shank me if i fudged up, i forgot i talk about his bar mitzvah a lot here, i literally dont know what this resort looks like, i watched so many vlogs to figure it out, irondad and spider-son, peter parker gets to do fun rich ppl things, that should be a tag honestly, this narration is holden caulfield level disjointed, tony stark spoils peter parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: Tony seems to panic for a moment, shifting his weight foot to foot, before spitting out in one mouthful, “I have a business trip in Florida right before your spring break and I talked to May and she says I can bring you to Disney for the week once it’s done ahhh.” He then breathes, grins plastically, and holds his hands out, like,I’m Tony Stark, hold your applause.Peter runs the words through his head no less than three times to make sure he had understood them properly. “Disney—you and me—spring break?” he repeats.Tony nods, hair flopping. “I mean, like, don’t feel obligated to say yes, but I thought it would be fun since May says you’ve never gone and she would’ve been working for your whole break anyway, y’know, at least this way we won’t be worrying about you sitting home alone for hours doing G-d only knows what—building accidental robot armies or something, or, worse, becoming a couch potato and forgetting every bit of knowledge I’ve ever carefully placed in that rat trap you call a brain—”“Tony,” Peter says, waving his hands to shut Tony up. Something warm sits in the core of his chest, hovering. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, yeah, for sure, let’s—Disney. Let’s go. Wow.”
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 74
Kudos: 368
Collections: Peter Parker Stories, The Friendly Neighborhood Exchange





	a dream is a wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookaddict209](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookaddict209/gifts).



> AHH FIC EXCHANGE FIC EXCHANGE! this is for the wonderful and extremely talented [@bookaddict209](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookaddict209/pseuds/bookaddict209/works?fandom_id=1001939), filling the 'vacation' trope ;-) i hope you enjoy, sweet soul!!
> 
> spoiler alert: i havent been to disney's polynesian resort thingy because i am poor. everything i got wrong about it, let's pretend i... didnt. artistic license! ive also never used the magic wristbandy things because, again, i am poor. i had to google how they work and i already didnt understand it anymore by the time i switched tabs back to my google doc. the theme here is just go with it, my dudes ~~

“Hey,” Tony says. “Hey. Hey, Pete.”

“Shh,” Peter says. “I’m doing a take-home test. Have you no tact.”

“Absolutely none,” Tony says. “Hey, pause your test.” He closes Peter’s laptop.

Peter looks up at him in disbelief. “This thing is timed.”

“You’re speedy. Just give me fifteen seconds, I have a—proposition, of sorts, for you.”

“I hate the sound of that. Thirteen, twelve—”

“Ah!” Tony cuts him off. He seems to panic for a moment, shifting his weight foot to foot, before spitting out in one mouthful, “I have a business trip in Florida right before your spring break and I talked to May and she says I can bring you to Disney for the week once it’s done ahhh.” He then breathes, grins plastically, and holds his hands out, like, _I’m Tony Stark, hold your applause._

Peter runs the words through his head no less than three times to make sure he had understood them properly. “Disney—you and me—spring break?” he repeats.

Tony nods, hair flopping. “I mean, like, don’t feel obligated to say yes, but I thought it would be fun since May says you’ve never gone and she would’ve been working for your whole break anyway, y’know, at least this way we won’t be worrying about you sitting home alone for hours doing G-d only knows what—building accidental robot armies or something, or, worse, becoming a couch potato and forgetting every bit of knowledge I’ve ever carefully placed in that rat trap you call a brain—”

“Tony,” Peter says, waving his hands to shut Tony up. Something warm sits in the core of his chest, hovering. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, yeah, for sure, let’s—Disney. Let’s go. Wow.”

Tony freezes for a moment, then grins this weird, mushy grin that crinkles his eyes at the corners. He reaches a hand out and musses Peter’s hair. “Nice. I’ll tell May. And Pepper. I totally didn’t ask Pepper first. Is that bad of me? It’s definitely the least crazy thing I’ve booked without telling her first.”

“You already booked the tickets?” Peter says. “Without even asking me first?”

“I knew you’d say yes,” Tony says with a sniff. “Now, get back to your homework, geez, what do I run here, a penitentiary? A juvie?”

“A Ronald McDonald house,” Peter mumbles, unable to swallow his grin as he re-opens his laptop so he can finish spouting some half-baked bullshit comparing Lady Macbeth and Cleopatra. “You’ve got the colors right and everything.”

“This is no Ronald McDonald house,” says Tony. “This is a Ronald McDonald _home.”_

Peter laughs out loud and kicks Tony in the shin so he leaves him alone to finish his work. He shakes his head a little while typing. Disney World with Tony Stark. His life is a fever dream.

xx

“When you said we’d be going on a business trip and then Disney,” Peter says, “I did not realize you meant I’d be spending the first day attending your meetings like your little—armrest on legs, stop leaning on me, you make me look like I’m five.”

“Aren’t you?” Tony says, pressing his elbow into Peter’s neck more firmly and squinting behind his sunglasses. Pink-tinted, to go with his lightweight grey suit. Peter feels like a schmuck next to him, especially what with everyone milling around this conference being four times his age and grey-haired and very, very… male. Like, overgrown frat boy type males. Peter has literally never been surrounded by so many pretentious old men at once, and he once went on a Decathlon trip to the UN. He had a bar mitzvah, and his uncle didn’t even have this many old, loud Jewish friends and extended-extended family members come. (Peter knew, like, five people at his bar mitzvah. He still thinks about the fact that he’d managed to get a kiss out of fifteen-year-old Shira Goldman that day. It was the peak of his manhood.)

“Nuh-uh,” Peter says. “I’m sixteen, and you know it. Practically seventeen.”

“Yeah, only infants count their age in _almosts,_ squirt, so you lost me there.” Tony stands a little taller, waves a hand and calls, “Earl Mathews, I knew you’d be here somewhere!” He then leans closer to Peter’s ear and whispers, “Play along, this is extraordinarily important.”

“Uh,” says Peter.

Earl Mathews is probably sixty and he smells like the Macy’s cologne section went up in flames and he was the only survivor. Peter peeks at Tony out of the corner of his eyes, sees the cool smile on his lips, and goes to imitate it, already feeling exponentially more stupid than he did a second ago. He shifts uncomfortably in his suit. It’s too tight around his thighs. He’s sort of bulking, no big deal, he’s definitely not trying to impress MJ. If she’s gonna be taller than him, then he’s gonna be broader than her for the first time, like, ever. Maybe he’s got to give Tony his new measurements. Good thing his actual suit is spandexy, geez, because this is most definitely impeding his range of motion in the leggy area.

“Mister Stark,” says Mathews, standing in front of them. Far too close. What is it with old people and personal space. “Must be ten years since we last saw each other. And look at you! Better than ever.”

“I only ripen with age,” Tony says, then moves his elbow to encircle Peter’s shoulders. “I want to introduce you to my personal intern and protege, sixteen-year-old Boy Wonder, Mister Peter Parker.”

“Hi, sir,” Peter says, doing his best Tony Stark confidence impression. “You can call me Peter.”

“And you can call me Earl,” says Mathews, looking surprised in that way old people do, where they give an over-exaggerated jaw drop and brow raise to the other adult, who is meant to smile proudly in a _yeah, he’s pretty alright_ type of way.

Tony is not the average adult, however. In fact, he is of the brand of adult that is entirely mortifying and completely awful to be seen with in public and Peter is already regretting this entire trip to Florida and all of its implications. “He’s a great kid,” Tony says, “and he’s smarter than his years. He works at my side in my labs, my _personal_ labs, advancing gear for Iron Man and Spider-Man. Suits, repulsors, web fluid for the arachnid. He even messes around with some adaptations for nanotech that could go far in the medfield once they’re perfected.”

“You don’t say,” says Mathews.

“I do say,” Tony says, standing taller. Peter is bright red and wants to die. He is considering making himself faint simply because it would be less embarrassing than this situation and would provide a plausible escape route via gurney. “And I especially say he’d be great at one of MIT’s little summer programs, if you’ve got anything on hand for us to peruse while we schmooze. Biomed, electrical engineering, physics—kid is into it all. And _good_ at it all.”

“That’s—great, Peter,” says Mathews, and Peter is even more abashed now that he knows this man simply must in some way be working in admissions at MIT. “I’ve got some pamphlets in my briefcase, just give me a second here—”

As Mathews bends over to dig through his case, Peter turns and gives Tony his worst unimpressed glare. 

Tony shrugs a little. The bastard. 

Mathews gives Peter a stack of pamphlets thick enough to paper his and May’s apartment with.

“I figure it’s best to give you lots of options,” he says sheepishly, “since Tony makes it seem like you’re into both science and engineering. Dual-interest, ey?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter, a bisexual, says, with an absurd urge to giggle, “yeah, thank you so much. It was an honor to meet you, sir.”

“And you,” says Mathews with a nod. He turns back to Tony then. “And wonderful to see you, as always, Tony. Let me know when you’re next in Cambridge. We’ll grab a drink.”

“Only after I’ve dropped the kid off for his first semester,” Tony says. He winks, and Mathews takes that to be his dismissal, waving a hand and grinning as he goes.

“What a schmuck,” Tony mumbles at his retreating form, and Peter snorts so harshly that he thinks he’s torn his sinuses into threads. “Alright, come on, let’s blow this place. I saw a Chip-oat-lee on the way here and I want to try one of those fancy burrito bowl things.”

Peter doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. He settles for following, shaking his head in disbelief, trying to ignore that manic celluloid-reeling in his brain he thinks he’ll always feel around Tony.

xx

Peter dangles a hand in the water and gropes blindly along the edge of his floating mattress for the cupholder in which he stuck his fancy virgin piña colada. His whole mouth sort of feels like the Dust Bowl because the sun is so hot, but the private pool is super nice and—ah, yes, there’s his glass. He grapples for the straw with his tongue and, upon finding it, sucks down a long pull of the drink. 

He lets out a cliche little “Ah” after, because he’s living the dream. 

“You are so funny,” Tony calls from where he’s sitting on the edge of the pool, idly kicking his feet in the water. “Kid, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve watched this exact scene in at least five different movies made in the eighties.”

“Leave me in my peace,” Peter says, waving a hand regally. The sun burns his closed eyelids bright red and his hair is dangling on his forehead, tickling his ears where it’s overgrown. He’s fairly certain his chest is at least a little sunburned, if it hasn’t started doing that embarrassing freckly thing yet. 

“I rented this peace,” Tony says. “I _own_ this peace, you little shit.”

“For one night,” Peter says. “You own this peace for one night and I am going to make the most of it.”

_“Madonna,”_ Tony says. “Did you at least put on sunscreen? I don’t want May to castrate me upon our return.”

“I’m too cool for sunscreen, are you kidding,” says Peter. 

“Alright, smartass,” says Tony, “you’re putting some on now, and I’m going to take pictures of you while you do it so I can send May proof that we’re being so responsible.”

Peter finally peeks an eye open and raises his head just enough to look at Tony.

Tony snorts. “Did I disturb your slumber, oh noble one?”

“Yup,” Peter says. He closes his eyes and lays back down. 

Tony goes unnaturally quiet, and, really, Peter should have expected it, but Tony starts spraying him with suntan lotion like it’s Raid and he’s the nastiest bugger of a cockroach that’s ever had the gall to skitter into Tony’s periphery, and it scares the shit out of him. 

Peter squeals in surprise at the sudden onslaught of what is compressed _ice,_ apparently, and manages to upend his floater, sending himself and his piña colada toppling into the pool unceremoniously. He emerges with a sputter, hair plastered stupidly to his forehead, his—definitely, now he’s sure of it—sunburned chest feeling weird and cold in the tepid water. “Dude,” he says.

Tony has his phone held up in one hand and the spray bottle of sunscreen in the other. He’s grinning. “Look, May!” he says. “I’m taking care of the kid!”

A chunk of melting piña colada starts floating closer to Peter. It looks disturbingly like puke. “Eurgh,” he says.

Tony winces. “Honestly, really very good thing I only own this peace for the night.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees with a snort, pushing the gloop away from him. “Good thing.”

xx

They drive early the next morning to the hotel they’re staying in. It’s some Polynesian something or other, and Tony keeps assuring him—with the window wide open, half-swallowing his words and flattening his hair backwards across his head like a crooked comb-over—that it’s “very fancy, really, kid, you’ll like it, I’m sure.”

The whole thing is decorated with palm trees and thick wooden spokes coming out of the ground like hacked-off Redwood stalks. Black and white drawings scrawl around the orange and red walls, and the ceilings are high and airy. The sidewalks are wide enough to fit an eighteen-wheeler. Seriously, Peter has never seen such wide sidewalks. He also caught a glimpse of a little waterfall on the way over here, and he’s still thinking about it. This place is the height of luxury. It’s insane.

It’s hot despite the fact that it’s only April— over eighty degrees for sure, and Peter is feeling a little delirious from the sun on his head. He leans heavily on the handle of his suitcase as Tony talks to the concierge, grinning easily and gesturing. 

Peter keeps staring idly around. He jumps a little when one of those costumed people comes walking around the corner. It’s an enormous, pale Lilo. He scrambles to grab his phone from his pocket to send a picture to Ned. It’s not that they’re not used to seeing costume people—they’ve seen enough dirty, matted Elmos snorting coke in the alleyways to fulfill that desire for life—but Ned loves Lilo and Stitch. It was the closest thing he had to a kid’s movie centered around his culture until Moana, which they have now watched enough times for Ned to recite every one of Maui’s lines by heart. Peter is a very dutiful Moana. It’s nowhere near the worst or most degrading thing he would do for Ned.

Lilo catches his watching and waves both arms, like she’s thrilled to see him.

Peter grins a little and waves back. 

Tony’s hand claps down onto his shoulder, then. He looks up at Tony, who sniffs a little. “You making friends?” he says. “Lady friends? Do I have to tell May?”

“I’m always making friends,” Peter says. “Especially lady friends. It’s my indisputable charm, I’m—irresistible.” He grins cheekily, wagging a brow.

Tony shoves the side of Peter’s face away with his palm and Peter laughs, balancing himself with his suitcase handle. “C’mon,” Tony says, staring at him with a weird look on his face. “Let’s go check in so we can hit a park.”

“Ooo, okay,” Peter says, hopping up to drag his and Tony’s suitcases away before Tony can get a grip on his handle.

“Hey,” Tony calls, scrambling after him towards the elevator. “Rude. So rude. Slow down. My weak heart, shit, my pacemaker needs an upgrade.”

Peter shoots him a glare over his shoulder before prodding the elevator button with his elbow. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“What, my loser of a ticker?”

“If you keep talking about it I’ll whip up some schemata for a new pacemaker tonight while you’re asleep, and then I’ll learn open heart surgery and perform it on you before we go to the parks tomorrow,” Peter says. 

“You’ll learn open heart surgery,” Tony repeats.

The elevator dings and the doors open.

“You heard me, old man,” Peter says, stepping on.

“You little _stink,”_ Tony says. He presses the button for their floor.

Peter shrugs. “Sorry, you’re just—not allowed to talk about your shitty pacemaker. Vacation. Vacation will fix your heart. No stress.”

“You are a recipe for stress and disaster. A stressipe for stressaster.”

Peter rolls his eyes. 

They lay out their suitcases, spend a good minute with their hands on their hips on the balcony, nodding in approval at the view, and drink some water from the tap. It tastes weirder than New York water. Sort of funky. They lock their important stuff in the safe, and Tony sticks the housing unit for his nanosuit under his shirt idly, as if Peter won’t notice if he does it without fanfare. Peter wouldn’t complain about it, anyway. He’d wear his webshooters if he felt sure he could get away with hiding them from the general public.

Tony then spends twenty minutes checking their two mattresses for bedbugs while Peter rolls his eyes and huffs and throws himself down on the fancy velvet couch in a fit of drama. 

“Jesus. If you’re so bored, go find our little—wristy thingies, the scanner doohickeys,” Tony says.

“Genius, billionaire, philanthropist, doohickey,” Peter says, but digs through Tony’s backpack for the hardware anyway. He pulls them out—one red, one blue, because they are nothing if not predictable—and Peter smacks his on. He walks over to Tony and finagles his onto his wrist while Tony continues his bug search. He then grabs Tony by the shoulders, pulls him onto his feet, and leads him to their backpacks. Peter forces Tony’s into his hands and pulls his own on while Tony stares at him with offense.

“Are you ready now?” Peter says.

Tony says, “But I didn’t finish my bug check.”

“I’m begging you,” Peter says. “Magic Kingdom is, like, right there. Right there, Tony. We gotta go now.”

Tony gives a long-suffering sigh but acquiesces. He pats his pockets and seems satisfied. He says, “Did you put on sunscreen?”

Peter chirps, “Nope!” grinning widely, and leads the way out the door.

Peter peers over his shoulder just in time to see Tony throw his hands up in a display of the classic _why, G-d?_ position Peter has seen quite often in reaction to his actions and decisions. It’s almost comforting, at this point.

Tony grabs the string from the strap of Peter’s backpack in his hand and wields it like a leash as they walk, Peter in front, Tony right behind. They ride the monorail, Peter practically pressed to the window while Tony jabbers about germs and _kid, stop touching the seat, stop touching the handles, stop touching your knees, everything is covered in infectious diseases._ Tony has three squeezey tubes of purell in his bag. The one he chooses smells like pineapples and Peter misses his piña colada as he rubs it between his fingers, staring at Cinderella’s castle in awe.

“That’s a _castle,_ Tony,” he says. “A real castle, right there, in front of me.”

“I can take you to see _real_ real castles, buddy,” Tony says, tapping the toes of his sneakers on the floor as they wait for the doors to slide open. “Ones actual royalty lived in.”

“Are you trying to tell me Cinderella was fake royalty?” Peter says as Tony grabs up the strap of his backpack again and they push their way off the monorail, their many seasons in New York rendering them quite adept at using elbows as soft-blow weapons.

“Um, no,” says Tony carefully. “Just that we can—you know, never mind, actually, I think this is the best castle you could ever see, screw Europe, we definitely won’t, um, plan that for June, my bad.”

Peter yanks on the strand of his backpack to jerk Tony’s arm. 

“Rude,” Tony mumbles. “Don’t know why I put up with a brat like you, truly, why do I—”

“Can we get ice cream?” Peter interrupts. 

“Sure, what kind?” Tony says without pause. Never mind that it’s eleven in the morning and Peter is purposely being a pain in the tail. Peter is quite certain that he could ask for them to switch parks, say that he’d changed his mind, Magic Kingdom’s vibes are all wrong, and Tony would say, _okay, where to now, then?_

Peter peers over his shoulder at Tony again and gives him a brilliant smile. “The Mickey kind,” he says. 

“The one with the ears?” Tony says. Peter nods and Tony nods back. “I approve. A classic. We can’t miss it, it would be blasphemous, probably. Hey, we should try all the Disney food. You’d like that, I bet.”

“Oooh,” Peter says, “you know the truest way to my heart.”

“Through your cavernous stomach,” Tony says with a grin. 

They get through the gates and onto Main Street, which is bustling and tan and ochre and cute and Peter snaps approximately seven hundred pictures as they walk, even though not much is happening. His smile is bordering on painful, his eyes too wide. He remembers Tony and peers over to see Tony already watching him. 

“Cool?” Tony says.

“Super,” Peter says. 

They see the castle up close. Peter makes Tony take a picture of him pretending to prop it up like the Leaning Tower. Peter thinks it’s a pretty funny picture. When he sends it to MJ, she calls him _a loser,_ but also tells him to have fun and send her a picture of Aladdin, so he thinks that’s a win.

Peter's favorite photo he takes is one he gets of Tony from behind. Tony’s face is turned to the side, his mouth split in a wide, gleeful smile as he stares at the bouquet of balloons in the hands of a cast member. 

Peter sends that one to Pepper and Rhodey, who both respond with quite the display of heart emojis and well-wishes and requests for more pictures of them both.

Tony tugs on Peter’s strap, and Peter turns, letting Tony yank him out of traffic. He’s got the map open in his hands. 

“Any requests on where to start?” he says.

“Um,” says Peter, eyes going huge. “Let’s just, like, do it all? Left to right?”

Tony nods. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”

They take to Adventure Land with gusto. 

They wait in an obscene line for the Thunder Mountain Railroad. Peter leans his elbows on the railing and Tony says, “Germs, germs. You never listen to me. Don’t think for even a second that you’re gonna touch me now.”

Peter holds a hand out, slowly reaching towards Tony as Tony leans backwards. Peter feels the eyes of the people around them locked on the display, but he does his best to ignore them, enjoying the truly dreamlike amount of time he’s now able to spend in the presence of one of his favorite humans alive. Mostly, though, he’s enjoying having someone to do this sort of stuff with. Act stupid. Annoy when he’s bored. Get glared at by with shoddily hidden fondness.

Tony jabs him in the ribs to get him to quit, and Peter doubles over to protect himself from further tickling advances, giving Tony a truly pungent stink eye. 

Tony smirks and tweaks Peter’s ear before shoving him between the shoulders to catch up with the line. 

They continue on. Peter makes them do the “boring stuff,” to quote Tony, like the Hall of Presidents, which is actually not at all boring not even a little bit. Peter particularly likes the Haunted Mansion and the Carousel. They wait for a ridiculous amount of time to ride the frankly disappointing Peter Pan attraction, mostly because Peter Pan is Peter’s most favorite Disney movie. He used to lie to the other kids growing up, telling them he was named after the character.

When Peter tells Tony this story, Tony says, “Shit, kid. You were always trying to be a man in tights and now you are. We can change your color-scheme if you want, switch it up, that could be fun. A funky green look, fresh for the summer,” and the worst thing about it is that Peter knows Tony really, genuinely means it. 

Peter gets his ice cream, and a boatload of pictures of him accidentally smearing chocolate on his lips. They meet Ariel, ride the Winnie the Pooh ride—which Tony finds terrifying and endearing and is quite torn between the two emotions every time they round a corner, if his expressions are anything to go off of—and ride the Mine Train thing, which Peter thinks is awfully similar to the Railroad thing from earlier. 

They slow down somewhere around seven, when the sun falls. They eat at the Cinderella Castle food place, which Peter really could just cry about. He gabs endlessly, excitedly, over the tabletop, between bites of chicken and potatoes, and Tony clings to every word with mortifying intensity. They plan their next days, pencilling in a return for the second half of Magic Kingdom, including a visit to the parade, which Peter has full intent to video start-to-finish to show May.

They do, however, get out of the restaurant in just enough time to watch the fireworks. Peter sits himself on the ground and Tony stands beside him, and they wait there until hordes of people surround them. Their spots are good. Peter waits with bated breath for the first burst of color, listening to the swell of the orchestra music and the narration over top— _“Each of us has a dream, a heart’s desire.”_

When the first pair finally rises over the prongs of the pink-tinged castle, orange streaks cutting across the black sky like Johnny Storm on a joyride, Peter cannot tear his eyes away. They burst in two pink, glittering chrysanthemums. 

Peter, with a gasp, reaches out and tugs at the hem of Tony’s shorts to make sure he’d seen it. In the same fraction of a breath, Tony’s hand finds itself atop Peter’s head, resting in his hair. 

“Holy cow,” Peter breathes.

Tony’s thumb brushes across Peter’s forehead in silent, rapt agreement. 

xx

The days pass in the same pattern. Peter plans their fastpasses the night before, taking whatever they can get. They eat a frankly enormous amount of food in the hotel and then they’re off, backpacks thumping their spines and tired grins on their faces, Tony sucking down piss-poor coffee out of a styrofoam cup on the monorail or in the driver’s seat of their rented car, one hand loose on the wood of the steering wheel. 

Animal Kingdom is great. Peter and Tony find no line on the Everest-themed ride and go at it six times in a row. The on-ride photo captures them mid-scream, Tony with both hands clutching Peter’s forearm, Peter with his nose scrunched and eyes closed. They buy it, Tony sniggering and muttering about making it his Christmas card. When they grow tired of walking, they watch _It’s Tough to Be A Bug_ and Peter nods along, commenting in support of the woes of insects, to Tony’s great amusement.

Epcot is both Tony’s and Peter’s favorite of the parks, what with the amazing walk-through experience of the countries—which Tony says he’ll bring Peter back to once he’s twenty-one so the two of them and May can drink around the world together—and Mission: Space—the best ride in all of Disney. They ride it once, and return to it twice more throughout the day. They make a badass, energy-efficient car in Test Track and send May what is probably, definitely too many pictures of it. They eat dinner in the Mexico pavilion, and they sleep like the dead that night.

Tony yells on the Tower of Terror and Peter cackles the whole way through, tears of mirth on his cheeks, his phone clutched in the hand he isn’t using to stick himself down in his seat, desperate to capture this moment for Pepper and Rhodey, who both leave Peter voice messages of their wheezing laughter in response. Peter hyperventilates in the Galaxy’s Edge area of the park. It’s Tony’s turn, then, to take the embarrassing pictures. Peter’s pretty sure Tony catches him wiping a tear off his cheek. He’s still got that weird, unidentifiable, vaguely constipated expression on his face. Peter has yet to figure out what it means. He will, though. He’s pretty determined.

xx

They’re waiting in line for the Rockin’ Rollercoaster and Tony’s eyes are glowing, even in the half-dark of the room. Peter thinks he looks strangely wistful.

He prods Tony in the ribs, a question in his gaze. 

“Hm,” Tony says. “I was just thinking. This is my first time here.” 

“In Disney?” Peter says. He can’t exactly say he’s surprised, after seeing how excited Tony has been for literally everything from the churros to the bushes shaped like characters to Space Mountain. (Peter can’t blame him for the latter: Space Mountain _rocks.)_

“Yeah,” Tony answers. He slings an arm over Peter’s shoulders, both of them leaning upon the gate. “I never went with, ah, my parents when I was a kid, so. And I never brought Pepper because I thought we were too old and cool, which I now realize was a grievous oversight on my part. She’d love this, I’d take her to all the princess dinners and shit. She’d lose her mind. She loves high society. She must have been royalty in a prior life. She’d fit right in.”

Peter smiles, nodding in agreement, hearing the silent statement Tony is trying to smother.

“This was good, though, right?” Tony says. Peter can feel the stiffness in his shoulders, a tight anxiousness that hasn’t touched Tony the whole time they’ve been here yet. Peter wants to make it melt away. “We’re having fun? A good time? I know it was last minute, we could’ve planned ahead more, done it right with the speed ticket thingies to cut the lines, but—this was still okay?”

“This is still _great,”_ Peter says, “are you kidding? Tony,” he shoves him with his shoulder and Tony shoves back, “this is so fun, this is like the most awesome thing that has ever happened to me in my whole life _ever,_ what kind of—schmuck question is that? Geez. This is like the most fun I’ve ever had.”

Tony visibly chews on that for a moment. When he manages to turn to Peter, eyes gleaming, his lips are pulled into a broad, unabashed smile. He tugs Peter even closer into his side, and Peter settles there, comfortable and safe and content. 

xx

It’s Thursday night and Peter can’t sleep. 

He stuck his head under the pillow, played two hours of Candy Crush, freed his leg from the covers to hang in the inexplicably frigid hotel air, read a comic on an illegal website, and gave up. He’s about ready to take a handful of Benadryl in the hopes the dose will be enough to knock him clean out for a few hours. 

He rolls over and stares at Tony across the room. 

Tony blinks one eye open, as if he could feel Peter’s gaze on him.

“Oh. Hey there,” says Peter.

“Hnghrh,” says Tony. “Why’re you awake.”

“Why’re _you_ awake?” Peter counters.

“Can’t sleep with you thinking your big noisy thoughts over there.”

“Gasp,” Peter says. “Mind-reader.”

“That’s me,” Tony says. Then, “Are you gonna tell me why you're awake or am I gonna have to wrestle it out of you? Hand to hand combat? Cage match? Fight to the death?”

“There’s no reason,” Peter says petulantly. “I’m so tired but my brain won’t take the memo.”

“Mhm,” Tony says. “Okay.” He pats the mattress beside him. “C’mere.”

Peter squints. “For real?”

Tony glares at him. “Science and reason says a new environment might help. A different bed is a pretty new environment, if you ask me. Are we not mature men of science and reason. Who can share a very large bed. And still be—scientific and reasonable.”

Peter doesn’t grace that with an answer. He slips out of bed and patters across the floor. He clambers onto Tony’s mattress and lays down next to him. It’s quite warm in Tony’s bed, unlike Peter’s, which felt large and cold and empty and almost ghostly. Hm. A new environment.

Tony yanks the blanket up to Peter’s chin, tucking it into place. Peter sneaks his hands out and taps them on the fold of the comforter. “Mm. This is nice,” he says.

Tony snorts and kicks Peter’s shin gently. 

Peter closes his eyes. 

He lasts about two minutes in silence before he whispers, “Hey, Tony.”

Tony flails an arm out and presses his palm over Peter’s mouth to shut him up. 

It only remains for a few seconds before he removes it, looking guilty. “I changed my mind, you talk, I listen.”

Well, now Peter feels like an ass too. 

“Nah, I’m good,” he says.

Tony opens his eyes and scoots closer, turning on his side, facing Peter. Peter turns over to mirror the position. 

“I think I’m just still trying to believe this is, like, real,” Peter says after a moment of staring at Tony’s expectant expression.

Tony softens. That strange look is crawling onto his face again. Peter can tell, even in the murky shadow of early morning, because it changes Tony’s whole _aura._ It makes him all mushy and peaceful. Peter doesn’t want it to go away, so he opens his mouth and starts talking.

“It’s just so cool,” Peter says, “being here. And I’ve never done anything like this, ever, like, I’ve been to Coney Island, but I haven’t been to a big, big amusement park like this, or stayed in a fancy hotel. And I definitely haven’t been out of New York except to go to Berlin that one time and Jersey to visit some of May’s really Italian cousins who smelled like onions but I don’t really count that one as a venture out of the city because it was so weird that sometimes I’m pretty sure it was, like, a dream,” Peter says. His jaw cracks under the strain of an enormous, gaping yawn. “And this sorta feels like a dream too, but a much better dream than that one, like, such a good dream, the best dream, it’s a little crazy. We met _Darth Vader,_ Mister Stark. We got to hear that _small world_ song in person. Never thought I’d… do that. N’ so much ice cream. Mmm. Ice cream.” 

Tony’s arm slips under Peter’s neck, Peter’s head pillowed on his bicep. That look is still coloring him all pink and glowy. Peter feels weirdly proud to have put it in place. Tony’s hand comes down to toy with the curls at the back of Peter’s neck.

“And,” Peter closes his eyes under the sensation of it, wow, it’s like it’s pulling the nervous energy right out of him on a little string, that’s weird, “hm. It’s just, um. Nice. To be spendin’ time with you. Here. Thanks, that’s what I’m… tryin’ to…” Peter doesn’t think he could talk any more if he tried. He’s out like a light.

xx

The last day comes too soon and ends even faster, swallowed by a final foray into Magic Kingdom for the parade and those frozen chocolate covered bananas before their flight that evening. 

Peter does record it. From start to finish. Tinker Bell and Peter Pan make an appearance, to Peter’s immense joy, and he gets to grasp hands with the both of them from where he and Tony sit on the edge of the sidewalk. He texts May and tells her it’s too much to send, but they’ll watch it together when he’s home, that he could never watch it enough to satisfy himself, that it was the nicest thing he’s ever seen. She sends him a barrage of thumbs up and smileys. Peter’s heart feels a billion sizes too big for his chest. He wants to sink into the sensation of it and float there forever. On one of those plastic mattress thingies, maybe. Feeling the warmth bake him like an August orchard.

Packing up their room is bittersweet. They’re both exhausted, they probably need a vacation from this vacation, but Peter is far from willing to leave this weird liminal space they’ve created, away from the bustle of New York and the weight of the safe function of the general public on their shoulders. 

Peter pulls their suitcases as they head to the gate Tony’s private plane is taxiing outside of. Tony holds the strap of Peter’s backpack in hand as they wind around. Peter idly thinks that it will feel really, really weird to go back to school and not feel the slight resistance of Tony’s slow walking dragging him backwards as he pushes through the hallway. 

They’re both wearing goofy paraphernalia they’d collected in the parks, Tony in a bright red ball cap with a little Mickey posing above the brim, Peter in an oversized Hufflepuff sweatshirt from their day in Universal. It’s all boxy and roomy and it sorta passes as a college sweatshirt, which is cool and makes Peter feel less lame about wearing it. Don’t get him wrong, he’s a proud Hufflepuff, but wearing merch in the real world makes him all jittery and nervous. He thinks it has to do with hating being seen. 

Throughout the whole trip Peter worried about exactly that, actually, at the elbow of who is arguably the most famous man in the world, but they hardly got looks at all, what with Tony dressing like a terrible suburban grill dad and Peter being miraculously anonymous to the press. Tony is different when he isn’t being watched. Less performative. Peter likes this version of Tony better, best. Gee, Peter is tired. He could really go for one of those sugary frappuccino things about now. Something with vanilla flavoring. He misses his piña colada. Gone too soon.

They sit at the gate until the plane is ready and they board, Peter with headphones in, Tony with his hand on the back of Peter’s neck. Tony’s plane is enormous, with televisions and seats wide enough to fit three people side by side and a built-in bar full of apple juice. It sort of smells like stale cologne and machine grease but that’s sort of what Tony smells like too so it’s comforting. It makes Peter’s eyes begin to blink shut before they even pull forward from where they’re idling. 

Tony bumps Peter’s knee with his own once they’re in the air. Peter bumps back, then turns onto his side in the seat, his legs pulled up to his chest, so he can look at Tony properly.

“Hey,” he mumbles, clumsy and half asleep. He yanks his earbuds out without pausing his music.

“Hi,” says Tony, amusedly.

“Hm. Hey, thanks,” Peter says. He reaches out and tugs Tony’s sleeve a little. “For everything. Like, goin’ on the rides with me, and, mm, feeding me and stuff.” Peter rubs his eyes with his sweatshirt cuffs. “Like, I said it earlier, probably, but there aren’ enough thank yous in the world for it.”

Tony looks overwhelmed for a moment, overcome with that expression Peter can’t riddle out, before he clears his face and shrugs. “S’nothing, kid. You know this is hardly a drop in the bucket for me.”

Peter frowns. “Dude,” he says, “it’s not about money, it’s about _time._ Like, okay, fine, money too, I’m grateful for the money you spent, but the time is way more important to me.” Now he’s grumpy. He wanted to nap, but now he and Tony have to have a heart-to-heart and Peter’s gonna get premature wrinkles across his forehead because of Tony’s inability to handle his emotions. “You didn’t think of this as just spending some cash to entertain me for a few days, did you? Like, an expensive favor for May to keep me out of trouble while she’s busy?”

“What?” Tony says, eyebrows knit. “Of course not. Of course not, not even a—why, is that what it felt like?”

“No, it didn’t, because it wasn’t _just a drop in the bucket,”_ he says, imitating Tony’s voice and automatic sniffy mannerism. Peter tugs Tony’s sleeve again with a scowl. “Don’t say it was nothing if you really mean _it was something but feelings give me the heebie-jeebies._ Let it be important. Peter and Tony hanging out because they want to make time for each other, to have a fun week in a cool place. Together.”

“I,” Tony says, a little horrified at the thought, “no, you’re right. Of course it wasn’t about the money, that’s just—it was a vocal tic, knee-jerk reaction, I’m allergic to exclamations of gratitude, I break out in literal hives and—anaphylactic shock, you know that. I like—this was—” Tony wrinkles his nose, visibly grappling with something before slumping in his seat, beaten. A little worn around the edges, but the most honest Peter has ever seen him. Eyes wide and a little disbelieving, mouth curled to one corner.

All at once, Peter gets it, his crossness fading to a soupy warmth. That unfamiliar thing on Tony’s face. It’s some weird, stunted, Tony-version of _affection,_ of _love._

Holy _shit._ Tony is so strange. 

He must be so used to giving people expensive stuff to show he cares rather than spending time or talking about it or whatever—and Peter is adept enough at remembering the things Tony mentions in passing to have patched together an ugly quilt in the image of Tony’s absent parents. Peter wonders if Tony even knows that shared time is, like, a love language, the _best_ love language, or if he just enjoys it obliviously. Peter almost laughs out loud, grossly fond of him. 

“I had a lot of fun, Peter,” Tony finally manages. It’s like a choir of angels as the clouds clear.

“I know,” Peter says. This is _exponentially_ better now. Understanding stuff is Peter’s favorite thing in the world. “So admit it. You had fun.” He prods Tony with a foot. “You took time out of your schedule to hang out with me, and you liked it. It wasn’t ‘no big deal.’ Say it. With your out-loud words. Come on, you can do it, I believe in you.”

“I—” Tony blinks. “Yeah, okay, of course it was important, it was—um.” This is the first time Peter has ever looked at Tony and thought, _gee, what a softie._ He wants Tony to look like this all the time for the rest of forever. Peter feels like he's in a very selective in-crowd, now that he knows what Tony’s been all clogged up about. “It was special. It was, like, the most special thing I’ve ever done in my whole life, hands down. It was fun, and stupid, and I never felt for even a second like it was boring or a chore. It was—spending time with you—Peter, that could never be a chore.” He clears his throat. “That’s the honest truth. There you go. Satisfied?” 

“Yup,” Peter says, meaning it wholeheartedly. He adds, hopeful, “And you’ll stop pretending you don’t have emotions?” He _maybe_ pulls out the puppy-dog eyes. He’s never been above using coercive tactics to get what he wants.

Tony says, pained, “Around you, maybe.”

“Don’t give yourself a hernia,” Peter says. He grins. That wasn’t so hard, was it? “You’ll get it eventually.”

“Get what?” Tony grumbles. He’s so sour when he’s embarrassed. Peter has literally never been more amused. He’s going to milk this forever.

“Emotions,” Peter says. “You’ll get emotions, and how to express ‘em.” He leans his head on his shoulder, too tired to hold it up. Tony is exhausting. At least this was satisfying. His good deed for the day. “I should start a class for you. Ben and May raised me good, so I’ve got lots of tips. Emotions For Dummies: Ten Ways to, um, Properly Express The Feelings You Think You’re Too Cool to Have.”

Tony sags in his seat, tilting his cap to hide his face. 

Peter snorts and reaches out, yanking Tony’s arm into a position where he can wrap himself around it. Tony scoots a little closer, always easy with physical affection even when he can’t put it into words, but that’s okay, because Peter has great reading comprehension skills. He can spot a context clue from a mile away. He smooshes his face into Tony’s shoulder and sleeps, grateful for the simplicity of being near each other, the ease of it binding them together in ways no title ever could.

**Author's Note:**

> my friends, i love you all. i hope you're healthy and safe! and happy friendly neighborhood fic exchange!! check the collection literally every day because more fics will go up as the days pass -- and a whole host of BRILLIANT authors are participating! go revel in the irondad!! <333


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